


The Fall of Michael

by queen_insane



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Dark!James, Depressing yet Happy, F/M, Light BDSM, M/M, Religious Allegory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 20:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queen_insane/pseuds/queen_insane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Silva finds James first when he falls to his watery death, it is here he slowly starts crafting James' fall from Grace, right into Silva's very arms. Skyfall AU. There is James Bond/Severine but it is very brief, and very important to the plot. There are two Canon Character Deaths but it is neither James nor Silva.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fall of Michael

**Author's Note:**

> For [we-solve-crimes-i-blog-about-it](http://we-solve-crimes-i-blog-about-it.tumblr.com/post/39178021301/00silva-gift-exchange) for the 00Silva exchange on tumblr <3\. 
> 
> I want to thank blinkingkills for hosting this and Perfidious Madmen who helped beta the fic a bit at the beginning, all other mistakes are mine.

It’s Silva that rescues him from his watery grave, breathes life into his cracked chest, and then whisks him off to a house on the Italian shores. There, he slowly nurses Bond back to life, sits by his bed while he recovers, and reads him Milton’s Paradise Lost. Even if he’s too sore to move, they talk about it—about Lucifer and his fall, about the good son versus the bad son. They argue sometimes, but Silva always leaves him with the same question before he departs: _“What if Michael had loved Lucifer enough to go against god hm? How beautiful would our world be then?”_

There is no real answer to the question. Lucifer had to be cast out so that humanity could flourish, had to be given to the demons and the tortures of hell so that people like he and Silva could roam the earth unshackled. Yet, without guidance humans have roamed like beasts. Bond knows the worst of humanity. In his darkest moments he thinks of Vesper, wonders if they would have had a chance if he had been anyone else. Humanity would have died out with Lucifer, but perhaps the world would be at peace.

When he is finally ready to get out of bed, Silva tells him his name, Raoul Silva. He rolls it around in his mouth to get use to the taste of it, the feel of it. He has long since decided that this man is dangerous, not to be trusted, but the ease of which he shares his name astounds Bond. Raoul Silva might be a monster in disguise—he has no doubt of that—but the man trusts him. Knowledge of this is perhaps more frightening than it should be.

The first mistake he makes is in staying after he is well. Silva gives him full run of the house and the surrounding small village. He wants to say that he stayed to get to know the man he is now sure is behind the theft of MI6’s operative list, to help bring him down, but truly he knows better. Deep down inside, there is something in Silva that resonates with him. Perhaps the word sounds like brother, but Bond thinks that it goes deeper than that.

Another mistake he makes, the second, is in letting Silva tell him stories of his childhood, of growing up on a small island, of how life was good and how he was such a simple boy. Then of course, about how everyone on his island slowly died of flu, until he was the only one left. How he begged to God, for someone to take him, but how instead he was saved by a goddess. Bond notices that when Silva speaks of his goddess his voice becomes tight, angry. History lies behind his words, but Bond cannot crack the code.

There are countless mistakes after that, but the biggest one comes when Silva kisses him, and he doesn’t pull away, isn’t sure if he has the willpower too. Things between them start off light, even the love making. It almost seems like Silva is afraid that if he goes to fast Bond will break. Finally Bond has to tell him that it is okay, that he is a man, and that his will is strong. At that Silva laughs, kisses him, and says, “Oh James, if only she could see you now. She would disagree, but I know better. You are strong, but not in the way Mummy made you, not anymore.”

Bond wonders who Silva is talking about, but it is lost to him when Silva ties him so nicely to the bed, pulls the ropes just so, and then fucks into him. Silva calls him his pretty little spy, holds him down and fills him full of his come.

After that, their love-making changes. Everything about it becomes rough and needy and perfect. One night, Silva takes a paddle to his ass, and it is the first time Bond complains. He says he will not like it, but Silva disagrees. They have no safe word—the idea of not having one thrills them—so Silva does it anyway. Tells him, “Relax, relax, give up control to me, it will be so sweet, so good my dear.” And Bond cannot help himself. Soon he arches into the touches instead of running from them. His cock becomes hard and swollen, but he cannot come, the cock ring around his dick so dutiful in doing its job.

When Silva is done paddling him, he fucks Bond with vibrator, leaves it inside of Bond until he is a shaking mess, until his control breaks, and he ruts his cock into the mattress, tries to bring himself off, knowing that he cannot, that it is hopeless, that he is helpless. That night is the first night he begs, and Silva tells him that he begs so prettily as he finally fucks him, as he lets Bond, finally, finally come.

Silva starts to talk as he unties Bond, and Bond does not want to know the things he says. His voice is sticky sweet while he tells Bond of M, of what she did to him, of how they are the last rats. While he speaks, Bond realizes that the reason why Silva’s teeth had felt fake during their kisses was not the plastic surgery he had assumed but were a result of the story that Silva tells him now. No, the story tears at him, because hadn’t he felt that same betrayal? Hadn’t he felt the stutter of his own heartbeat? _“Take the shot.”_ Something in him shatters a bit then, a small chunk of himself that will never be seen again.

After that, Silva tells him everything; he holds nothing back. He tells Bond of his plans, his needs, his desire to see M’s body laying on the ground covered in blood. One day, Silva’s tiny compound is discovered by what can only be other terrorists. They slink in during the dead of the night, but the attack doesn’t seem to scare Silva. In fact, the man seems to see it coming. By morning, most of the terrorists are dead … save one. Blood pounds in Bond’s ears when Silva’s hands ghost over him, his chin resting on Bond’s shoulder as he looks at the man across from them. “You know what must happen, James. Do not be afraid. I will help you.” 

They kill the man together, but it is Bond who—at Silva’s instance—pulls the trigger. The man in front of them isn’t pure by any means, but Bond knows that he has somehow crossed a line. Perhaps it isn’t the last line, the man was a terrorists after all, but he has killed for Silva now. He has killed someone for something other than Queen and Country. That small moment of unprovoked violence had felt good too, part of him wants to experience it again, another part is afraid of what will happen if he does. 

Two days later, Silva comes to him with a new suit and tells him that he is ready. That together now they will take down M, make her suffer and then die for her betrayal. Bond dresses while Silva talks behind him, tells him of his plans upon plans, how M will try to take this away from them if they let her gain an inch—so they must not let that happen—and about how she doesn’t understand them at all. And Bond hates himself that he listens now. He is Michael reborn, a Michael torn from God, brought low by Lucifer, who cannot help but feel sorry for his brother—for the person God destroyed. He is a Michael who has seen his brother’s torture and his own. He is a broken man, an angel on the edge of falling. 

Silva drives him to the closest airport and kisses him, tells him everything will be okay, that M will hurt for what she has done. Bond kisses back and then steps out of the car, waves and enters the airport. To the plane that will take him back to her. 

While Bond is waiting for the plane, he looks up at a TV screen and watches the top of the MI6 building blow up. Part of him—the part that Silva has all but cleansed from his body—tears in sympathy. But that part is small now, small and dying. He takes a drink of his vodka martini and tries not to think about the word traitor. And what it means. 

+++++

He is able to find M and convince her to let him back into MI6. They need him after all. England is on the verge of crisis, of collapse, and he’s the only one standing in the way. He may be old but he’s good. M knows it, and while the rest of MI6 doesn’t their opinions have always mattered little to him. Being back is like being home, only there is this tension that he feels whenever he looks at M because he knows. Because he cannot forget what Silva told him. Yet he still loves her. Oh he will call her a bitch to her face—has on occasion, but he still cares.

It makes him question himself to find that he still has feelings for this woman. Despite his fears he takes all his tests and does exactly what they expect him to. When the tests are done there is no doubt in his mind that he did not pass. The gun shot wound in his shoulder hurts too much for him to shoot properly—staying with Silva made his mind a mess. Yet when M calls him into her office and tells him that he passed he feels his heart swell a little. As if God has given him her blessing. Perhaps, he thinks of betraying Silva of coming home—but he crushes that thought, locks it deep down in a box where he will never find it again.

No matter what he tries to do to convince himself that what Silva says is true, each hour he spends at MI6 feels like he could stay here again—if only because he misses it so much. His heart starts to warm, thawing out like he was never gone, like the winter of Silva’s anger and cold smiles meant nothing. M eventually sends him to China, to find the man who got them into this mess. He wants to fight it, fight her orders, tell her not to send him there, after that man—his Lucifer, but he goes anyway. One does not turn down a mission from God.

In China he easily takes out the man who stole the drive. 

Following the chip in the man’s bag he finds his way to the casino. Sévérine is a surprise. She is soft, and supple and beautiful. One touch and he is sure he would break her. They talk and he says all the right things in all the right ways. He will rescue her, he will protect her, he will save her from this life. In her eyes he can see that she believes, or that she wants to. Old Bond—the man that wasn’t destroyed by Silva, the one that lies dormant, he too wants to believe. New Bond, knows it’s too late.

That night he fucks her on the yacht. Perhaps it’s a last resistance against Silva, a last attempt to fight back against the man dragging him into hell. If he does this and loses himself, he can forget everything—the way Silva has made him now. When Silva see’s Sévérine he’s sure that he will know, can picture the smile that’s really a sneer on Silva’s face.

+++++

Silva meets them on the island, gives Bond a smile, “James, James you have come back to me. Do you have it? Show it to me.”

Bond fishes into his pocket and pulls out the small transmitter. Silva eyes it and smiles again, “Good, this is good. Turn it on. My men will show you to the main room, wait for me, wait for me love.”

Before they can drag Sévérine off, Silva grips Bond’s face in his hands and kisses him brutally. Bond cannot find it in him to look at Sévérine. When Silva is done with his mouth, he kisses down Bond’s—neck bites into it at the collarbone—then kisses it again, soothing the burse that will follow. Slit eyes look up at Sévérine, Silva’s chin resting on the mark he just made, his claim, as if a predator looking at his prey. Bond doesn’t doubt what Silva sees in Sévérine’s eyes, “So are we going to do this or are we going to get into a pissing contest?” he says to break the tension.

At that Silva hums into Bond’s skin and then stands up, straightens his coat, and walks over to Sévérine—takes her arms. He leads her away as Bond follows the men to the main chamber.

+++++

Silva’s new digs seem appropriate. The whole room looks almost like a church, but instead of people sitting in pews there are only computers, the army of hell not demons but easily manipulated code. Silva’s men get him a chair to sit in but do not tie him up, they know he will not run. While he is waiting he realizes that Silva has left one of his computers on. He walks over to it and sits down—scans the information there and feels the last bit of himself die.

As he’s reading, he hears the elevator on the other side of the room grind to a stop at the bottom. A small glance over his shoulder tells him that it is in fact Silva. The man stalks over to him, “She said I had passed.” Bond almost growls.

Silva leans over him, his breath ghosting over Bond’s shoulder, “Medical evaluation fail, psychical evaluation fail, psychological evaluation—alcohol and substance addiction indicated.” Silva let’s out a puff of breath by his ear, “Oof.” He stops to scroll down a bit, “Pathological rejection of authority based on unresolved childhood trauma, subject is not approved for field duty and immediate suspension from service advised. Shame, you let your heart warm to her again James.”

Bond wants to deny it—but it is the truth. M holds sway over him, but he suspects she holds it over Silva too, her broken angels, “Do you think I could help it?” he turns to glare at Silva.

“She sent you off to me, knowing you are not ready, knowing you would likely die, Mummy was very bad.”

The fabric of his shirt parts as Silva reaches down and caresses his chest. He arches back into Silva’s chest. Behind him Silva moves the chair away and presses him into the table, “Did you fuck her?” he knows that Silva is talking about Sévérine.

“Yes.” He hisses it and doesn’t try to act like he had not, lies are not welcome here in this holy place. It’s not like Silva doesn’t know anyway.

“Hmmmm. I thought you might. No matter. You are mine.”

Bond turns and kisses Silva, forcing their mouths together painfully, enjoying the feel of it, it is messy and sloppy and perfect. Silva grins into it, into Bond’s ownership of his mouth, “You are mine too.” Bond says.

They kiss as they rut together and Silva is not patient, Bond knows that he will have him soon. Silva’s fingers dip low to Bond’s trousers and he begins to work the buttons, popping them off one by one. When that is done Silva pushes them down Bond’s legs using the fabric to trap Bond there. Then he undoes his own, freeing his own cock, already hard and leaking, “I do not have anything.” He tells Bond.

His hand beings to stroke Bond, twisting his wrist expertly, stroking from the top of Bond’s shaft to the leaking head, rousing Bond into his own sweet moments of pleasure. Under him Bond bucks up so Silva’s cock drags along his ass, leaving a trail of precome, “Do it anyway.”

“It will hurt love.”

“Shut up and fuck me.” Bond commands.

Behind him Silva smiles into Bond’s shoulder and then spits on his hand and coats himself, doing his best to produce some sort of lube. In one quick stroke he slams into Bond leaving the man breathless. The pain of it, the feel of Silva’s dick filling him, makes sparks dance behind his eyes. For a moment they lie there motionless, the exhilaration of it all almost too much to handle. Then Silva begins to move. As he does his hands reach down to Bond’s on the table, holding him down but also tangling their hands together as if to mock the handholding than lovers did. 

Soon Bond feels himself thrusting back, need consuming him. He can feel it, their sins, tangled up together like this. Silva’s insanity consuming him with each stoke and pulse of the man’s cock into him. He wants to burn up like this, in Lucifer’s fire. When Silva fucks him he feels strong, power crackling around him like static. Here in this moment Silva is the storm pouring power into him until he explodes. Each time Silva hits his prostate all he can see is ruin. God’s dream come crashing down. And it has never felt this good, he has never felt this powerful.

The table under them shakes, Bond’s hips and cock pressing into the metal. His dick leaves trails of his own come. He can feel where the table edge will leave bruises on his legs, marks of Silva’s dominance, but he cares little. Silva’s thrusts inside of him have become merciless in their intensity and his body feels like it is going to come apart at the seems. He rubs his dick into the table under them desperate to come, his need making him almost act like a bitch in heat. He cannot fight against Silva any more, his mind seems like it’s floating, cast out to sea to never return.

Just when he thinks that he cannot take another second, that he will spill all over the table, Silva bites his ear and whispers into it, “Come James. Come for me.”

And he is lost to the rush. 

Silva pulls him up and fucks into him, gripping his hips tightly and marking Bond’s body further riding out his own pleasure. Bond feels the man behind him tense and then shudder as he comes inside Bond. When he pulls out Bond can feel Silva’s come leak out of him and finds he does not give a damn. 

They stay like that for a moment, catching their breath but after it passes Silva looks at him, “Come we must dress. I have a present for you.”

It takes a while for them to dress again—to look like proper spies again, but it is eventually done and Silva leads him outside to a courtyard, a desecrated Eden. As he does he talks of how he had taken the island from the natives and Bond does his best to look impressed. Really all he can think about is the present that Silva has promised him. Finally they reach the front of a rock structure and Bond sees Sévérine beaten and tied up, leaning against one of the broken down statues. Silva grins and steps next to him, “She knows to much James. Don’t you agree?”

Part of him wants to argue but Silva is correct, Sévérine has seen too much, “What should we do with her then.” Bond says. It’s more of a statement than a question, he knows deep down what they will do with her.

Light gleams in Silva’s eyes at Bond’s words and he pours them two shots of what Bond notes is 50-year-old macallan scotch. The two of them clink glasses and Bond swallows his, letting the liquor comfort him. Next to him Silva drinks his. Done with his, Silva fills his shot glass again and walks over to Sévérine. It looks like they exchanged words and when he leaves the look in her eyes is devastating, his shot glass is also empty. Silva walks over to him, “What did you tell her?” Bond asks.

“That I do not share. I’ve always had problems with that you see.” He pauses, “But you asked what we should do with her. What do you want to do with her?”

“There is only one thing to be done isn’t there?” Bond tells him.

It fells strange to be standing here talking about the death of this woman as if it is nothing. It is almost as if they are discussing the weather. After he does this Bond realizes, there will be no going back. Nothing he does or says will ever change that, the man he killed for Silva before was practice, this is the real thing, the final line, and for Silva, for their own personal revenge, he will cross it. Next to him Silva signals with his hand and two men bring over a small case. When Silva opens it Bond sees two beautiful old guns. Silva takes them out and hands one to Bond, press his face against his and kisses his cheek as he retreats, “Let us see if we can get that old spark of you back. Let’s see who ends up on top hmm? Us, or her.” When she says her Bond is not sure if he is talking about Sévérine or M. But he knows that this will decide it all.

Bond lines up his gun with her head, does not pause—takes the shot. There is a crack and then silence. The glass on her head tips and falls to the ground. In that moment he feels something shift inside of him, as if he’s possessed by some higher power. Feels something snap and then realign. He has always been turned on by violence, but this is something new—more primal. This is his second baptism, he is reborn. He cannot not help himself then, when he turns and shoots all the men around Silva grinning as he does so. While his aim isn’t perfect, it is much better than before. This truly has been what he had needed. He is a new man, the feel of steel under him feels friendly, like a lover and a friend. When is done he looks up at Silva and the man is grinning, “Oh James. My perfect, perfect James. So needlessly violent.” 

Bond looks up at him a smile on his face, “Target practice.” He tells Silva, as if that absolves him of anything, as if he had not done it because he could—because he is finally free of his bonds.

As he stands there in, their church of ruin and stares at the carnage around them he cannot help but feel glad. The look on Silva’s face is one of victory, of come what may. Together they will burn her, and her whole world. He can hear the sound of the wings of the helicopters, of the angels descending and does not care. A long time ago God had asked one brother to destroy the other and he had. But now both brothers stand united as one front. This is what God feared, this union of the only two men who could stop him, stop her, because there is no one stronger. No one better.

+++++

Later as God’s body lies cooling in the courthouse, her own judgment cast down upon her by her two sons—Bond drives Silva away, to freedom and he has no regrets. This man is his sanctuary, the only one who understands him now, and though heaven may weep over their crimes and their misdeeds, it will not flood this home. 


End file.
